Pancakes in Panem
by Moshing In Panem
Summary: Haymitch invites Katniss over for breakfast.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ nor do I own Katniss or Haymitch, although I would not object to owning the latter.

The telephone rings.

I start in my seat. I was reading _District 12: An Unabridged History_, a diluted piece of propaganda garbage that had once served as a school textbook. Simultaneously, the book disgusted me and amused me. In a sense, what else was there to do? I no longer had a need to hunt, and I had seen quite enough blood shed in my mere eighteen years. If anything, I had nothing to do— and still better things to do than be bothered by the Peeta Mellark.

_Peeta, if you're calling me, _no_, I do not want to sample your baguettes_.

Poor kid.

Slowly, deliberately, I cross the room, hoping that he'll lose interest and hang up, just like the other forty-seven times he's called in the past two months. Standing in front of the petite table in the foyer, I realize that I hope in vain; I take a deep breath as my hand closes around the spine of the telephone.

Before I can change my mind, I snatch up the device and put my mouth to the receiver. So much for social anxiety.

"Hello?" My voice is tinged with an uncertainty not characteristic of the Girl on Fire, but this minute detail of my life does not matter because nothing matters anymore. The Panem of old is dead and gone, and Prim went with it.

"Hey, Katniss."

Instantly, blood starts to race through my veins in a way that I had not felt in weeks.

Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy. This telephone conversation does not involve the incessantly lovelorn and fabulously swoon-inducing Peeta Mellark, just Haymitch Abernathy.

"Hey, Haymitch. What's up?" I respond, my tone suddenly cheerful. _Smooth, Katniss, smooth_.

"Nothing, I just… Do you want to come over for breakfast?" he asks. In my mind's eye, I see the expression on his face and his hand that nervously scratches the back of his neck, just in the same way that I am certain he can hear the smile in my voice.

"Of course! I'll be right over!"

It's a short trot from my house to his in the Victor's Village, so my words are far from exaggeration. I freshen up and slip into a modest sundress, my mood instantly boosted by the prospects of breakfast among sunshine and birds and cornflower blue eyelet lace.

I scan the lower racks of the foyer closet for the appropriate pair of shoes. I consider going _sans chaussures_ because honestly Haymitch wouldn't care, and despite the dangers of broken glass, unforgiving gravel and lurking shrapnel, once I arrive at Haymitch's house, bare feet would be much more comfortable. Instead, against all common sense and proper Katniss logic, I choose a pair of immaculately white wedge espadrilles that would shock Gale, delight Peeta, and make Cinna proud.

After wobbling somewhat gracefully over to Haymitch's house, I hold back the urge to kick down the door in Career fashion, and instead knock politely before entering. Immediately, I'm impressed. Haymitch has managed to keep house magnificently since my last visit.

I wander into the kitchen, a place of good times and friendship that becomes increasingly more familiar, and find Haymitch already at work. Today, he is dressed to kill in grey slacks, a pastel blue Oxford shirt, and a pinstriped grey and blue vest.

As he turns to greet me, I can't even fight the smile that finds its way on my face. The pain of losing Prim has always been an oppressive pall, never ceasing to suffocate me on late nights alone, but lately, I've been filled with a warmth and comfort that always seems to radiate from this very place of residence.

I cross the kitchen, the handmade Capitol fabric billowing about me as Haymitch sweeps me into a hug. In this moment, everything feels so familiar and feels so right. It's been far too long, but I'll never give him the satisfaction of saying that. I mean, I'm Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, tough as nails and raised in the Seam. _Although_, I decide as I pull away, _everyone needs a savior_.

"You look nice today," Haymitch jests, turning back to the cabinets to produce flour from Peeta's bakery. Randomly, I can't help but note how excellent he smells. The scent is hard to place, but it is a pleasant one.

"You don't look too bad yourself," I admit, sitting at the counter as he works his magic. A little known secret is that Haymitch can whip up a mean batch of pancakes. They're even better than the Capitol's pancakes to be honest. The consistency is perfect, and the ingredients are always fresh.

There's a moment of companionable silence as he hunts down the baking powder and dives into the refrigerator for milk and eggs, the latter of which distracts me greatly.

"So." Haymitch turns back to me as he nurses a drink, trademark smile on his face. "How have you been?"

Of course, Haymitch isn't stupid. In fact, he's probably the smartest person I know—a fact that I would never admit to his face. He's also one of the only people who can truly understand a portion of everything that I've gone through recently. I take his question as relative question, more of "How have you been since Prim's passing, in relation, to, say, when the incident first occurred?"

I shrug, examining my fingernails. Approximately two weeks ago, in an odd and Capitol-esque quest for amusement, I painted my fingernails. The work was hard and messy, worse than anything that I endured in the Arena. I gained some respect for all of the stylists in the Capitol, and even more respect for Peeta's artistic endeavors, which was slightly annoying because Peeta is already so virtuous and perfect that it's unjust and makes me want to hurl. Among other things, the glittery cream-colored nail varnish remains, and I find it pretty and lovely. In a sense, the color reminds me of Prim, and that comforts me.

"Better," I answer honestly, and he nods.

"That's good to hear." And that's the end of that, because Haymitch understands. If any other girl from District 12 had been Reaped and subjected to the horrors of the past year, such as Delly Cartwright – and no disrespect to Delly or girls like her, because perhaps Panem need more radiant vessels of eternal sunshine to brighten things up—everyone would rush to shower her with patronizing sympathy, and she would embrace the attention wholeheartedly. But I don't want patronizing attention, as Haymitch knows very well. I've had enough attention in the past few months to last me a lifetime, and it will. I just want to return to relative normality. I just want somebody to talk to. I want peace. I want pancakes.

We converse some more as Haymitch cracks eggs, something that he tries to teach me but I fail to grasp as a concept, nearly costing me the state of my dress. I've never really been squeamish, or delicate, for that matter, and both Haymitch and I have a good laugh. In passing, I realize that I haven't felt this good in ages, and I have a feeling that this euphoria could not have come from hanging out with Peeta.

Finally, the batter is whisked—a task that can, in fact, handle, Haymitch, thank you very much—and next comes the best part: flipping pancakes. Haymitch pours the concoction into a sizzling, onyx cast iron pan. The batter is a color reminiscent of District 4's sand and is now dotted with chocolate chips and blueberries and raspberries. I watch, both enchanted and envious, as Haymitch expertly flips a pancake. He scoops up the pancake and places it on a large, ornate plate. The plate is mostly floral, and in the center of a wreath of flowers and greenery reads "Abernathy." I'm certain that there's a story behind the plate, clearly a novelty in District 12, but I'm not particularly concerned. We have time on our side.


	2. Chapter 2

Haymitch flips another pancake, and this time, I'm sure to make mental notes as to how he does it. Flipping pancakes can't be quite as hard as archery. Or can it? Haymitch flashes me a cheeky grin.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Why the pout?" Dammit, Haymitch.

"I just don't get it," I admit, and Haymitch cocks his head, hair swishing about his face, looking as mischievous as ever. Conflicting with all cognitive thought processes is the fact that it is quite hard to ignore how attractive Haymitch is. It's just simply there, and for the moment I can't elaborate.

"How do you…?"

"Yes?" He presses, the same familiar and playful expression on his face. This look, fraught with possibilities, is one that was seldom ever seen on Peeta's face, and almost never on that of Gale's. For once, in my vulnerability, I have nothing to lose.

"How do you flip pancakes?"

He motions for me to join him once more, and I do, no, rather, I can't resist. He has no idea the effect that he can have. I wonder if he will ever know. Can he sense it? Can sense that the feelings we have for each other aren't just a fleeting fancy or a bored lust?

"Okay, here we go," Haymitch announces, and in spite of myself, a tiny smile forms on my face. Haymitch is now entering "mentor mode."

"What?" he asks.

"Hmmm?"

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"I'll take your word for it," he says, a tad sarcastically, and I can't help but feel that I am evenly matched.

"So," he continues, pouring batter into the pan. "Hold the handle with both hands –"

"Why do I have to use two hands? You only use one," I protest.

"I only use one hand because I'm actually good at it, and, besides I've been doing this for a while. Anyway –"

"But that doesn't mean anything. You could have learned quite a long time ago, and still fail phenomenally at flipping pancakes."

Haymitch looks at me incredulously, and I smile because I've bested him. "Okay, Katniss, you win. But still, use both hands. Okay?"

I acquiesce, gripping the pan with both of my hands, feeling a bit smug and, perhaps, what I believe the girls at my school referred to as "flirtatious."

"Now, kind of… thrust forward. With your arms, with your arms," he says exasperatedly, noticing that I'm cracking up. Sometimes, I am loath to admit, I can be incredibly immature among friends. "Gosh, Katniss. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"But the gutter is comfy."

"Focus," he says firmly, but I see the corners of his mouth twitching. I attempt to thrust the pan forward, but to no avail.

"Try more of a scooping motion. Like so." He gestures awkwardly and I burst out laughing. He smacks his forehead. "Dear Lord: why?"

"Okay, okay," I say. "I want to have another go."

He extracts the badly burnt pancake and tosses it in the trash before setting me up for another try. This time, however, Haymitch is behind me and suddenly I feel warm all over. I sense that I'm reading too much into this simple action; it's only platonic and for teaching purposes only, not to seduce. Although, I reason, that I wouldn't resist. His hands close over mine gingerly, and suddenly, I'm fabulously endowed with the ability to flip pancakes.

The process gains a steady rhythm, and I feel safe and sound. I feel as if there exists only Haymitch and me, and that we've been together like this for years.

"Okay, I want to try to flip a pancake on my own," I announce confidently, regretting the words as Haymitch shifts away from me. My emotions are in a constant tug-of-war with this one. The relationship between Haymitch and me is not as black and white as the relationship that I have with Peeta. Yes, I have mixed feelings, but at this moment in time, as much as I feel for the boy with the bread, I don't want to be bothered. Haymitch is something else entirely.

"Don't get cocky," he warns, his signature smile in place, but his admonition is useless. We all know that cocky is my middle name.

I take a deep breath, hands on the handle and eyes on the prize. And…

With a splat, the pancake leaps gracefully out of the pan…

And onto the kitchen floor.

There's a grave silence… Before we both burst out laughing.

It's so easy with Haymitch. I don't have to pretend to be anything, I don't absolutely _have_ to doll myself up and be perfectly decorous for him to like me. He's seen me at my very best and at my very worst. So has Peeta to some extent, but he's ruled solely by his heart rather than by his head. The problem with Peeta is that he is grossly biased and isn't satisfied with just merely being friends while I sort myself out. These things take time. This Haymitch understands, too.

The morning is bright, and painted with the palette of life. Haymitch and I sit across from each other in the buttery yellow sunlight, knees brushing comfortably as we dig into delicious pancakes; in my glass is milk and in Haymitch's glass is coffee, rum and whipped cream. And in this moment, for the first time since Prim has passed away, I can honestly believe that perhaps this life is worth living.

"If there's a place that I could be  
Then I'd be another memory.  
Can I be the only hope for you?  
Because you're the only hope for me.

And if we can't find where we belong,  
We'll have to make it on our own.

Face all the pain and take it on,  
Because the only hope for me is you alone."

– "The Only Hope for Me is You" by My Chemical Romance


End file.
